Richard sat in his office, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he watched the CCTV footage of Emily's room. His eyes gleamed with interest. There was something different about her, something that stirred a restless curiosity in him. She was not like the others — the usual parade of captives who cried, begged, or submitted without resistance. No, Emily had spirit.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze sharp as he watched her. Earlier that day, she had punched one of his men so hard the poor fool had crumpled to the floor like paper. And the way she stared Richard down when he confronted her — not a flicker of fear. That fire, that defiance... it was refreshing.
As he watched her pacing around the room, trying to intimidate the maid servant who had entered with food, Richard couldn't help but chuckle. Her movements were deliberate, almost predatory. She wasn't just surviving — she was scheming.
This is going to be a fun one to break, he mused, lifting the glass to his lips. A challenge, he thought, something he hadn't had in a long time. Most people in Ashwood were too broken to fight back. Emily, on the other hand, was still standing tall.
He turned the sound up slightly, just in time to hear her muttering curses under her breath. He smirked. Feisty little thing. His eyes trailed lazily over her figure. He wouldn't deny she was easy on the eyes either — tough, but with curves that would tempt any man with a pulse.
Meanwhile, unaware of Richard's gaze, Emily methodically searched her room. As a police officer, she was trained to detect the unseen — and it didn't take long for her to spot the telltale signs. A small, glinting lens barely concealed in the folds of the curtain caught her eye.
Her blood boiled.
Without hesitation, she grabbed the flower vase sitting on the table and hurled it with precision at the camera. The sound of shattering glass filled the room, and she watched with satisfaction as the camera flickered and died.
"Take that, you sick bastards," she hissed under her breath.
But she wasn't done.
Storming into the bathroom, Emily's eyes scanned every inch of the tiled walls. Her stomach twisted in disgust when she found another camera cleverly disguised behind the mirror. Fury surged through her veins. Invasion of privacy was one thing, but this? This was depravity.
She yanked the mirror off the wall with brute force and stomped it into pieces.
"Who puts a surveillance camera in a woman's bathroom? Perverts," she spat, brushing the shards aside with her foot.
Emily knew she had to tread carefully. She was in enemy territory, surrounded by wolves, and yet she felt no fear — only burning rage and a steely determination. She needed to get out of here. She needed to fight back.
But first, she needed to know everything — the layout, the guards' schedules, the weak points in Richard's fortress. She wouldn't rush blindly into escape; she would plan it meticulously, just as she was trained to.
As she surveyed the room for anything else that might help, her thoughts flickered to Sergeant Dalton — the man who had betrayed her. The man she had once trusted. Fury darkened her features. I'll make sure you rot behind bars, she swore silently.
In Ashwood, there were no true police officers. There were only criminals hiding behind badges, and Richard was their king. It made her stomach churn.
Hours dragged by, but Emily refused to let despair creep in. She systematically explored every inch of her room, searching for weaknesses. It was then that she noticed something on the floor — a small piece of paper, almost camouflaged against the tile.
Curious, she picked it up. The handwriting was rushed, almost frantic:
"Meet me in the garden at midnight. Come alone."
Her eyes narrowed.
There was no signature, no name, just hastily scribbled directions:
"Go down the hallway, turn left at the third door, and walk straight until you reach the glass door. The garden will be on your right."
Her heart raced as she reread the note. Could it be real? Was there someone else trapped here, someone willing to help her? Or was it a setup — a cruel game by Richard to see how desperate she had become?
Still, hope was a dangerous thing. And she clung to it tightly.
She tucked the note into the waistband of her jeans and resumed her vigilant wait, every second stretching into an eternity. As night blanketed Ashwood, she sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the faint murmur of voices and footsteps outside her door.
When the clock finally struck midnight, she slipped silently out of her room.
The hallway was eerily quiet. Shadows loomed, cast by the dim wall sconces. Emily moved with cat-like precision, hugging the walls, pausing at every corner to listen. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse a steady drumbeat in her ears.
She counted the doors. One. Two. Three.
At the third door, she turned left as instructed, her shoes soundless against the marble floor. Straight ahead, she saw it — a large glass door leading into the garden.
But as she approached, a heavy sense of dread filled her gut.
Where was the person who had summoned her? Why was it so quiet?
Her instincts screamed at her to turn back, but it was too late.
A low growl broke the silence. Her head snapped up just in time to see two large bull dogs emerging from the shadows, their eyes glinting hungrily under the moonlight. Saliva dripped from their bared teeth.
Panic clawed at her chest.
She tried to run, but her legs refused to move. They felt like lead weights, heavy and unresponsive. Tears blurred her vision. She stumbled backward, hitting the cold wall behind her.
The dogs lunged.
Her mind screamed in terror. Is this how it ends?
As she started to collapse, a strong pair of arms caught her just before she hit the ground.
Her blurred vision made out the faint outline of a man. Desperation broke through her lips as she whispered, "Is that you, Liam?"
And then the world went dark.
---
Richard held her limp form against him, stunned.
Liam?
The name echoed in his mind.
Who was this Liam? A lover? A friend? A husband? The way Emily had clung to the name, gasping it with such desperate hope, stirred something foreign inside him — something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
He hadn't cared about her past before. But now… now he was curious.
He shifted Emily in his arms, lifting her easily. Her head lolled against his chest, her face pale and vulnerable in the moonlight. A strange, protective instinct tugged at him — one he immediately shoved away.
She was his captive. A pawn in his game.
And yet…
He studied her features with a mixture of amusement and irritation. The spark she had shown earlier was gone now, snuffed out by fear and exhaustion. But he had seen it. He knew it was there, burning bright beneath the surface.
He glanced back at the dogs, who sat obediently at a distance, their training impeccable. They hadn't hurt her. They had only done what they were ordered — to scare her, not maim her.
Carrying Emily easily, Richard made his way back inside. His mind was whirring with possibilities. This Liam — whoever he was — was important to her. And if Richard knew anything about leverage, it was that the people you cared about were always your greatest weakness.
As he entered the mansion, his men glanced at him but quickly looked away, knowing better than to question their boss.
Richard carried Emily to her room and laid her gently on the bed. For a moment, he just stood there, watching her.
She looked so small like this. So fragile. A stark contrast to the fierce woman he had watched smashing cameras only hours ago.
He reached out, almost without thinking, brushing a lock of hair from her face.
"What are you hiding, Emily?" he murmured under his breath. "And who is this Liam to you?"
His lips curved into a slow, wicked smile.
You're mine now, little fighter. And I always find the answers I want.
Turning off the light, Richard left the room, his mind already plotting his next move.
Emily would fight him every step of the way — he knew that.
And he couldn't wait.